And will we recognise the place when we get there. . . ?
The new Penguin Book of Russian Poetry has surprises to offer.
I know that when the words are clear and bright
nothing else is, as the milk of street lamps
I realise the purpose is to make me feel like a war criminal. Sorry, tweeters, I don’t.
Up before dawn, the garden gone Jurassic and ominous
Uncharted, whole tribes could be hiding down there
The smell of weak sun varnishing the larger leaves, sending
Is it the drugs or is it me?
The walking trees come from a tram
the size of several hundred dogs.
A morphine glade. (Unscheduled stop.)
Three prize-laden upcoming poets return with second collections driving poetry into the digital future and the human past.
The path up to Pendle. The sleeping beast. The purple skies.
Folk tell of witches burned or branded or drowned or hung
Craig Brown finds rhymes for Guru-Murthy and Rees-Mogg.
"The world you quit / Is staying here, so say goodbye to it."